


Your Move

by Hikou



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!, Yu-Gi-Oh! Series
Genre: CYOA, Choose Your Own Adventure, F/M, Interactive, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-11-22 10:14:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikou/pseuds/Hikou
Summary: A strange cab has arrived to take you anywhere from ancient Egypt, to Duelist Kingdom, to Kaiba Corp HQ. The driver only has one request: your name. [CYOA, ReaderxVarious]





	1. 1A, Your Name

**Author's Note:**

> I have unsuccessfully tried to create a Yu-gi-oh CYOA for a decade. 
> 
> Third time's the charm, right? 
> 
> You are hereby forewarned of angst, crack, gore, and smut. Proceed at your own discretion. 
> 
> Godspeed.

It’s only one bag, but the contents of your life are obnoxiously heavy.

Everything you own is stuffed into one cheap, polyester duffel bag. Everything you own _has_ to be stuffed in the cheap, polyester duffle bag because if it’s not, you don’t own it. It’s the nondescript black kind of bag a bank robber would carry. It’s the kind that too-often gets lost at baggage claim—the kind you buy at the last minute.

You _had_ bought the bag at the last minute.

And now here it was, handles gripped in your upturned fists like a barbell. It is stuffed with clothes, and trinkets, and anything else you would grab in a fire. The front pocket, where the last minute odds and ends would usually be shoved until the zipper needs to be surgically spliced back together, is surprisingly slim.

The pouch has only two contents: a touristy, thin-papered map and the small envelope it's wrapped around.

You stagger around the rear of the cab, struggling to balance the duffel between the yellow bumper and your right knee. Your fingers claw desperately trying to flip the panel open, but skid past the metal uselessly.

A shadowed figure gives an equally useless wave with a quick jerk of his wrist from the driver’s seat. His fingers are spread wide and look disproportionate and alien between the overcast night sky and the glare of streetlight on the rear window. Nevertheless, the 2.6 seconds you take to stare is long enough for everything in the bag to tilt to one side and topple loudly to the pavement below.

You wince with the impact as if you’ve fallen instead.

The driver doesn’t move to help collect the fallen luggage but _does_ offer a frustratingly cheerful thumbs up through the glass.

Exasperated, you open your mouth to demand, “A little help?”

The driver doesn’t move, thumb still pointed to the ceiling, but the trunk flops open with a robust popping sound.

With a grunt of combined irritation and exertion, you heave your bag from the pavement to the back of the car. The rear axle bounces with the effort and it crosses your mind that the duffel looks kind of like a body bag.

You shake your head to clear the morbid thought and slam the trunk closed, dismissing it.

Without losing any time, you trot your way to the rear passenger door and give the handle a too-firm pull. The door holds firm and your fingers slip, leaving you to flail backwards for a moment, once again trying to regain your balance. You try again, more gently, and find the door to still be locked.

“Hello,” you call, rapping on the window impatiently, but nothing happens.

You move to front door and find it opens with a peppy click.

You poke your head inside cautiously. The driver is looking out the side window, up at the night sky. A long lock of dark, braided hair falls to the right side of his head, peeking out from a dark green head-wrap. His shirt is an obnoxious repetition of yellow and orange patterns printed on thin linen that seems ill-fitted to the chilly night.

You clear your throat, but the man still does not turn.

 “I’m sorry,” you start, not feeling particularly remorseful, “would you unlock the door?”

“Lock is jammed,” he explains in a heavy accent, turning towards you with a too-wide smile on his face. “Front is fine,” he proclaims with an inviting wave of his arm. “Hurry, hurry, or you are late.”

You pause for a moment, taken aback by the insistence. The driver is young; there are no wrinkles above his high cheekbones; and there is no particular sense of malice in his dark, almond shaped eyes. The car seems clean, more importantly there aren’t any Clue-based murder weapons laying around—no candlesticks, no pipe wrenches, just a cheap, souvenir shop bobble-head of a sphinx fixed to the dash.

But he is decidedly too happy to see you.

The man notices you looking at the toy and gives the creature’s nose, or lack thereof, an affectionate _boop_ laughing joyfully up at you with the sound effect, but proclaims urgently in his broken English, “My name is Khonsu. I have many traveler to carry tonight. You are coming?”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose with the stupidity of the entire ordeal. You don’t have much of a choice in the matter, you assess, squinting your eyes closed. It’s not like you're going to haul the body bag out of the trunk and call an Uber now.

You nod your assent and open your eyes to climb into the passenger seat, but find the cabin is now empty. You back away from the car frantically, eyes darting around to locate the colorful Khonsu, but are instead overwhelmed with the realization you are no longer standing in the street in front of your home.

You blink a few times at your surroundings, trying to do the math. But the numbers don’t add.

You can’t help but jump at the slamming of the trunk and the driver lilts towards you, a bit short of a skip, and holds out your bag in his abnormally long arm as if it weighs no more than a box of tissues. It sags as it passes into your outstretched hands.

“I—What?” you try to ask, but the man is fumbling inside his shirt pocket. He is unfolding a single page of canvas-y paper.

“Miss is tired,” he explains, fishing around in his pocket for some missing piece. “Travels are longer and Miss should rest, but Khonsu has delivered her fine.”

You look around frantically for another person, but find again that you are alone with the cabbie. He pulls a chewed up Bic pen from his pocket and poises it above the paper. You expect he is writing you some archaic bill.

“It—It’s fine,” you stutter out, still disoriented from your quick trip. Maybe you _had_ simply fallen asleep. You were here now that’s all that mattered. “I don’t need a receipt or anything. What do I owe you?”

But the man doesn’t write out any figures. Instead, he just says, “Name.”

“I—uhh,” you stammer, trying to stall out of giving this weirdo any personal information. “I don’t have a credit card or anything, just cash.” You try to smile.

The driver mirrors it back.

With the speed of a cobra his long fingers strike out and yank the black tag from the handle of your duffel. He reads the inscription on it thoughtfully before tucking the tag and the paper back into his pocket. He turns to leave.

“Hey!” you yell in protest, pawing at the man’s thin arm.

He whirls around on you too fast and although there is no anger on his tranquil face, you are suddenly nervous. “What do I owe you?” you try to cover sheepishly, dropping the bag to the ground and fishing around in the front pocket for some bills. You can’t remember where you had put the cash, but you continue to dig all the same.

You had packed it all very particularly. Why couldn’t you find it?

“Name,” the man repeats again, patting his chest where the tag now resided.    

“I—“ you begin to answer without thinking, but find you don’t have the word to provide. Your confusion seems to please the man and his smile grows. He takes a step back towards you.

What _was_ your name?

“Khonsu,” you try.

“I am Khonsu,” he agrees.

You turn around in a full circle, trying to place your surroundings and finding, to your horror, you have no idea where you are. “I didn’t tell you where to take me.”

Khonsu’s smile fades. “Travelers never tell Khonsu,” he tells you with sad eyes.

The wind blows, ruffling the man’s shirt and tugging your hair to the side. Above, the clouds drift apart and the moonlight strikes the man’s face for the first time. His skin reflects a sick greyish color that mimics the nighttime clouds above. His teeth are the sharp-toothed grin of a bear or a crocodile. His dark eyes have bled to a flat, matte black.

The skin around his mouth is puckered and pulled, revealing dried and decayed bone when he says, “Khonsu delivers them the same.”

The wind picks up again. When his braid is pulled with it the strands look frayed and unhealthy: dead. When the lock settles, they are again shiny and black. His skin is copper and warm. His smile is encouraging, but still irreparably unsettling.

You take a step back when he bends down toward the open bag and retrieves a folded map. He extends his long arm out and offers the crinkled paper to you, bending out of his crouch. You reach to take it, but something slips from the middle and skitters out on the ground.

The driver, as if playing with a child, waits for you to look down for the envelope you’ve dropped. Once your chin is at your chest, he reaches a long finger out and _boop_ s it against your nose like he did the toy sphinx. Your head bobbles back up, but Khonsu and the cab are both gone.

Your gaze returns to the street. Laying on the blacktop is:

(2A) an invitation.

(2B) a boat ticket.

(2C) a business card.


	2. 2A, The Invitation

Time resumes around the empty street the moment it notices the cab is gone. Young people with similarly crammed bags on their shoulders are milling about, heading this direction and that. They clump into groups of hunched backs and swishing cardboard. They waive the shiny bits of paper in each other’s faces excitedly. They clog the increasing foot traffic in the street.

The streetlights begin to fade into your vision in slow motion as if they are being turned on one by one. You crumple the map in your hand and reach down for the silver-embossed envelope that you had dropped. The second your fingers touch the paper, a boot scuffs them away.

The wind picks up briefly, dragging your only clue across the sidewalk like a cat toy.

Panicking, you shoulder your massive duffel like an ox and stumble forward with your arm outstretched towards the card. It is stamped in dirty footprints, streaked with mud, and ripped at one corner before it finally skids to a stop. Its edges flap up around a large brown boot like a hug and an equally large hand reaches down to pluck it away.

“That’s mine!” you call peevishly, waving the outstretched arm upward to gain the man’s attention. “Excuse me! Sir?”

The man holds the scrap of paper up to his face, but wrinkles his nose at it, paying you no mind despite the fact you are close enough to slap him.

You have half the mind to, but the man is enormous. Of course, it may just be the fact he is a fully grown person amidst a bunch of scrawny adolescents.

You toss your bag at his feet and fold your elbows in front of you expectantly, stretching your nose up to measure.

“Nan-de-show,” he sounds out in a horrendous accent. His tone indicates an insult, and you aren’t entirely sure he even knows what he is asking.

Well, one thing _is_ certain: he sounds as stupid as he looks. The man still sports sunglasses, pushed up against an American flag bandanna, even though it is the dead of night. An over-sized gold cross, that you're 90% sure is probably only _painted_ gold, hangs ostentatiously from his neck.

“I’m American, asshole,” you growl out in English, swiping for the invitation.

The man leisurely raises his hand, holding the trampled envelope just outside of your grasp. Scrawny teenagers or not, the guy has a good eight inches on you at least.

A savage smile lights upon the man’s scruffy blonde face. It seems he had been blundering through this throng of foreigners with only half an idea what he was up to. He was now pleased to have someone familiar to torment, “Where from?”

You strangle a scream of frustration as you mistime a jump at his hand and he yanks the envelope away again. The question rattles around in your brain, but you can’t seem to find the correct response for it.

You _were_ American. You were pretty sure, anyway.

The man seems to sense your discomfort and offers his free right hand to you. You begrudgingly offer your own and he crushes it in a bear-like grip. “Keith,” he introduces.

You struggle to come up with a suitable response, but find you don’t have a name to offer in return. Your eyes can’t help but wander to the ripped loop where your baggage ticket used to hang. “Listen, Keith,” you start, “could I just get my envelope?”

“I dunno,” he responds, rocking back on his heels to lean cockily against a light post. “What’ll you give me for it?”

“Nothing,” you answer sharply, stamping your foot for effect. “It’s mine.”

“Possession is nine tenths of the law,” he responds with the ferocity of a third grader.

 “For fuck’s sake, just give it to me!” you hiss, swiping at the man’s giant paws again, but he turns at just the right moment, and you swing around on his arm like a rag doll. His fingers are quickly ripping the envelope open. You shriek in surprise, clambering for the piece of paper, “Keith, _give it to me!_ ”

The people around are beginning to pay attention, but none seem quite brave enough to approach the ogre of a man. He’s gotten the card inside out of the envelope. Pretty scrolling silver letters decorate the white card-stock, but the salutation line of the invitation has been surgically removed.

Keith frowns down at you and you frown up from where you hang off of Keith’s elbow.

It’s as if someone has taken an exact-o knife to the name on the invitation.

“Who’d you lift this off of?” he wants to know, lowering your feet to the ground.

You release your hold on his arm. “It’s mine,” you told him. You _thought_. The driver had given it to you, but he’d taken it from _your_ bag, hadn’t he?

Or had he?

Had you taken the cab or called the Uber?

You shake your head, trying to gain some clarity.

“Look, I get it,” Keith says in his best _I’m cool_ voice. “Sometimes you gotta make your own luck—“

“Did you just quote _Titanic_?”

“Listen, the point is,” he pauses for effect, “ _I’m cool._ It’s _cool._ ”

Your jaw goes slack and your eyes roll up at him. “Words famously spoken by people who are _not_ cool.”

“Babe,” he substitutes quickly, “come on, _really_ , like _I’m_ gonna turn you in.” He had managed to weasel an arm around your shoulder and was holding a hand to his supposedly bleeding heart. “Me—a friend, _a compatriot_. I’ve got your best interests at heart here.” You half expected him to start trying to sell you snake oil.

“What do you want?” you finally asked.

“To help,” he lies between grinning teeth. “I mean, Babe, you should’ve at least fixed it up right. How are you going to explain the name being cut out?” And without further suggestion, he deftly rips the top half of the card off and throws it behind him in the street.

“Jesus Christ!” you shriek, grabbing at the paper falling like confetti.

“Praise his name,” Keith barks back with enough enthusiasm that you aren't sure if he is being sarcastic or not. 

You scowl, unsure of the proper response.

“Do you want to do this or not?” he asks. “You can chicken out; that’s fine. I’ll buy it off of you.” He smiles, digging into his blue vest, “Better yet, I’ll trade you.”

You eye the newly offered paper suspiciously, not sure at all what it was. To be honest, you aren’t entirely sure what's on the card you had originally lost either.

“What do you say? You’ll probably get killed out there anyway,” he taunts, but the threat gives you a bit of a chill.

3A, “Go to Hell.”

3B, “No Deal.”

3C, "No backsies." 


	3. 2B, The Ticket

You squint your eyes in the blaze of the morning sun, once again caught off guard and more than a little confused. You hadn’t noticed the navy blues of the night sky bleeding into the lavender that signaled dawn but now the sun is floating up over a horizon of ocean, bobbling on the skyline as if it simply had spent the night under water. The offending moon is now only a ghost, hanging in the fully-lit sky.

It's comforting in a way. Not only can you make out the world around you with detail that the pale moon had not afforded you, but you are now reassured that time had actually passed. You _must_ have actually _traveled_ somewhere in the cab. You weren’t _totally_ losing your mind.

People are beginning to mill around the dusty street, chirping at each other like early morning birds in tones too high pitched for you to understand just yet. They busy themselves rolling out canvas awnings and setting up wooden carts. You wonder idly if you had been dropped off in the middle of a farmer’s market.

All in all, though decidedly foreign, no one strikes you as particularly malicious, and so you dump your weighted duffel to the ground and wish luck to whatever thief thought he might pick up the bag and run.

You crouch on your haunches and observe the scrap like you might a large spider—close enough to see the tiny pieces, far enough to avoid being bit. It's a thick piece of paper or a thin piece of cardboard, stamped with outdated courier typeset in all capital letters. Half of the slip is written in a language you have a hard time deciphering, but luckily in plain English the words “BOARDING PASS” had been printed in bold across the top, followed neatly by a subheading of “DOCK 3” and a reservation of “STATEROOM 7”. The edge of the ticket is perforated, but doesn’t hold any modern bar codes or customer service numbers.

With cautious fingers, you reach out and pluck the ticket from the ground, pinching it between your thumb and forefinger like you might hold a dirty sock. A series of stylized eyes stares back at you from the reverse side of the ticket. You count seven of them stamped in pattern blue watermarks. And although the words are not noticeable in the cliche lettering that had been chosen, there is absolutely no debate about what they say.

 _Millennium River Tours, Cairo, Egypt_ is printed in splotchy, weathered font underneath each glaring little eye.

You drop the ticket as if you _had_ been bitten and began to swivel your head frantically, only confirming your fears.

The sun has risen all the way past the water’s surface now and is weighing the world around you down with an oppressive heat. The wind swishes, trying to soothe you, but only succeeds in pelting any exposed skin it can find with grains of sand that feel like hot needles. The people around you have solved this problem with long, draping linen fabrics that hid their tanned bodies from the rage of the elements; it seems you are not so prepared.

Their early morning chattering begins to clear around you as if you too have emerged from underneath the waters, and you begin to realize that you don’t understand them, not because you aren’t paying enough attention, but because the language they are speaking is totally alien to you. They spare you sideways glances as they make their ways through the port-side market, eyeing you with more bewilderment than distaste, confirming that you are woefully out of place.

Much like the duffel, all the thoughts in your head shift heavily to one side, and the weight of it knocks you backwards onto your backside. Your fingers clench and unclench nervously in the coarse sand.

You shake your head slowly, but perhaps you were only looking around. The people seem to move faster around you now. Their confusion is now touched with an apprehension at not only your strange dress, but your childish posture. A bubble of a few feet remains clear around you in the street as you once again struggle to add all the figures in your head.

There was a man, and the moon, and a car.

A cab, you reason.

You had gotten in the cab at… _some place_.

You had come out of the cab… across a goddamn ocean.

You push a dirty palm to your forehead, trying to cover your eyes and keep your brain from overheating all in one gesture, but it isn’t particularly effective.

What the hell had he done to you?

“Miss, did you drop this?”

Where the hell had he taken you?

“Hello?”

_What was your goddamned name?_

“Are you all right?” the words register around you as a hand reaches out and grounds you back to the world outside of your whizzing skull. The spidery blue eyes of the ticket are being offered to you from bronze fingers, cuffed in gold.

Across from you, crouched at the same level there are a pair of puzzled, but concerned eyes.

They belong to…

3D, a man

3E, a boy

3F, a woman


	4. 2C, The Business Card

2C, The Business Card

You quickly recover the fallen business card, scooping it up in cupped hands like a baby bird. It’s heavy, and textured, and seems outrageously expensive for something that’s meant to be passed out like candy. However, it seems to be lacking all the usual business card components, like a name or a telephone number.

A corporate logo has been emblazoned on the front of the card, but nothing further. Your fingers swipe around the edges of what was beginning to feel more like plastic that paper. One of the corners caught.

“ _Watch out!_ ”

You glance up from the street where the cab driver had left you, a bit startled. Both hands are still preoccupied with the disposable bauble.

All you see is a Christmas colored blur.

You aren’t sure which you hear first, the horn blare or your skull hit the pavement. Maybe it's the same sound. Who knows.

There is a sickening crunch that you wish had been bone, but sadly, is not, and before you can reorient yourself, or get any breath back in your lungs, you're clawing upwards to get one last glimpse of your black duffel as it is trampled under the back wheels of a city bus.

Your heart sinks in your chest, cowering between bruised ribs, and your brain screams.

So does your mouth.

It's a wordless, guttural sound, but the meaning behind it is pretty obvious.

“Holy shit, lady,” a voice admonishes from the pavement nearby, “it’s not like you had a baby jammed in that gym bag.”

Your head swivels in a predatory manner, looking for something to strike out at, but you find your victim already looking worse for wear.

The side of the boy’s face is bumped and already turning a little purple, but half a shade darker than the lavender lock of hair that pokes out from beneath his red hat. His green coat is ripped at the shoulder where it met the pavement. Your eyes follow the sleeve all the way back down to the hand that is still gripping your elbow from when he had half-ripped, half-tackled you away from the bus.

You glare back up at his eyes and he removes the offending appendage, tottering to his feet with a wince.

“You didn’t, did you?” he asks incredulously.

You continue to glower.

He offers a hand. “Come on. Before you get hit by another car.”

You stand of your own accord, dusting the dirt off of your knees and pocketing the card you’d managed to clutch through the entire ordeal. He eyes it skeptically, but doesn’t mention it.

He stomps ahead of you to drag the remains of your trampled duffel bag off of the road and onto the sidewalk where a small congregation of gawkers has assembled to watch the carnage. They all look mildly offended when the boy tells them to, “Get! Mind your own goddamn business.”

You seem to have put him in a mood.

You limp along after him with mixed feelings on a second car.

There are some jagged spots on the bag where metal and broken glass poke out. Shredded clothes escape out of the over-stuffed fabric in tufts. They all match the scraped ones you’re now wearing, you realize, looking down to discover you’re no better off than your savior.

“Looks like a bunch of girl shit,” he assesses with his arms crossed; “no babies, no puppies.”

You frown at the carnage and nudge it with your foot. It seems more important than a baby or a puppy, but you can’t pin down why.

“We good here?” the boy barks testily, obviously ready to leave, but not socially able.

You open your mouth to bark something back, but snap it closed again just as fast. Bad day aside, the kid has pretty much just saved your life. You look down, hoping maybe there was a checkbook or some other suitable _thank you_ sticking out of the bag, but find none.

“I’m—,” you start again, but stop short. You wanted to introduce yourself, but find the information lacking. Unconsciously, you reach for the card in your pocket, thumbing over the edges nervously. “I’m—“ you start again.

\--but he intervenes; “How hard did you hit your head?”

You glance backward at the pavement, looking for some sort of ballistic evidence to base your answer on, but find none. “Less than a MAC truck, more than a Louisville Slugger.”

He raises an eyebrow at the answer, but seems to accept the pain chart you’ve constructed.

“I’m sorry,” you substitute swiftly. “It’s been a bad day. Thank you for… uhh…” you sputter out unsure of how to phrase it.

“Saving your ass,” he supplies.

“Yeah,” you agree quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

You look up a bit surprised, but assume he’s probably just concerned about brain damage. “I should… uhh… I should go—“

“Go where?” he asks, swinging his arms out of the torn green jacket. He bends to zip it around the remains of your duffel like a body bag. It isn’t pretty, but it’s somewhat effective at keeping the shattered bits of junk inside. “You’re going to carry this thing with that limp?”

It almost would be sweet, if not for the tone.

“I don’t really have much of a choice,” you bark back.

“I’m Rex,” he announces, heaving the strap of the bag over his good shoulder. “You can either tell me where you’re going or I’m going to take all of your shit to the nearest hospital and you can pick it up there.”

It's a strong ultimatum.

You look down at the card, thumb still flipping idly against the corner, and realize abruptly why you're so fascinated with the object. You brush your fingers across the edge again and find…

3G, the card flips open.

3H, a raised, green stone.

3I, a tiny, inset button.


	5. 3A, Go to Hell

You don’t consider the offer very long, but you pause just the same. You cock your head to the side, trying to rattle the right option loose in your brain. You frown, not finding quite what you’re looking for, and cock your head to the other side.

Keith’s smile falters—either because he’s worried you’ll decline or because you’re turning into a raptor.

You nod to yourself, pleased with your final decision, and pull your knee back to aim a childish looking, but especially hard, kick at his shin.

“Go to Hell,” you spit.

He doesn’t drop the invitation, but the paper is crushed between his fingers and his pant-leg when he slaps both hands to his knee. He hops backwards comically for a moment, trying to maintain his balance before tottering backwards.

“Give me my goddamn envelope,” you order, extending an open palm down to him.

“Go to Hell,” he returns evenly.

You watch in subdued horror as he grips each corner of the invitation and swiftly tears it in half down the middle. He pairs the halves and rips them again.

Your mouth drops open.

Keith continues to rinse and repeat. Eventually a tiny snowfall of silvery-white confetti litters the street between you. The hesitant spectators have begun to crush inward, forming a circle to watch the tiny pieces of paper float to the ground.

They have unwittingly formed a wrestling ring.

“I’m going to kill you,” you whisper in a quiet monotone.

Keith only laughs condescendingly from his seat on the pavement, slapping his good knee with the exertion. The motion kicks up a wind that sends the tiny puzzle pieces of your only clue into a flurry.

“No, Keith,” you repeat in the same whisper. “I’m going to kill you.”

You’re not sure if he hears you or if he just doesn’t care. Either way, he doesn’t look up; he just continues to bray like the giant ass that he is.

A combination of rage and adrenaline is shooting through your veins like electricity. The pulses spasm the muscles of your hands closed into tightly quivering fists. They relax periodically into arched claws of fingers when you try to separate them before slamming closed again. Your teeth grind together, struggling to break free of your locked jaw, but to no avail. Your lip pulls upward into a snarl, trying to free some words from your mouth; nothing breaks loose.

Without a battle cry, or a snide remark, or even the blink of an eye, you launch yourself forward.

Your clawed hands swing out ahead of you to swipe at his bemused face like an angry kitten. Your knees pull upward to put momentum into the pounce and you fly forward with more force than you imagined.

Before you can make contact, two arms wrap around your waist and heave you backwards. Your hands flail for a moment as you try to clutch at Keith, but ultimately, you are suspended.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” a voice tries to soothe from behind you. “Calm down. Cool it!”

You continue to thrash instead.

“What is going on here?” the voice demanded. You crane your neck to try to get a glimpse of your captor, but find yourself pretty well subdued.

Keith, however, is fully visible. He climbs to his feet, seeming to favor his left leg as he shifts into a cocky posture, folding his arms neatly over his chest.

“This crazy bitch attacked me,” he accuses.

“After he mugged me,” you return.

He snorts, “I didn't mug you.”

You lunge, struggling to reach a hand for his throat, but are still held firmly back. Keith still flinched and you preen in satisfaction.

“Then what's all that!” you shout, gesticulating wildly at the shreds of white paper littering the ground beneath his feet.

“I don't know, Babe,” he shrugs cool. “Why don't you tell us?”

For the first time, your hands go limp. The electricity in your blood short circuits with a fizzle, leaving a static, metal taste in your mouth.

You open your mouth to insult him, or scream, or maybe take a literal bite out of him, but can't muster the energy for any of it. Your mouth simply hangs open in shock.

Unfortunately, it has no further to drop when a small child parades into your peripheral vision and orders to, “Put her down.”

The arms release.

The little boy looks up at you from under long, black locks, and says, “She's not going to go attack anyone, right? She wouldn't want to be disqualified from my big brother's Battle City Tournament before it even starts. Right?”

The little boy leers at you as if you have any idea what innuendo he's getting at.

“Who are you?” you ask warily, keeping your claws neatly at your sides, though not actually retracted. Keith was still only a few feet away.

The boy frowns, but his tone is unperturbed when he responds. He must get this a lot.

“I'm Mokuba Kaiba,” he introduces and extends a hand to you like a westerner. “I'm the Vice President of Kaiba Corporation and Chief of Security for Battle City.”

You let the titles roll around in your head for a moment before one question pops to the forefront:

4A, “What is Battle City?”

4B, “Who is this goon?”

4C, “Where's my bag!”


	6. 3B, No Deal

“Well,” you pause to fake your best gracious smile, “thank you, but… no thank you.”

Keith looks down his nose at you for a moment before an equally fake smile breaks out across his face.

“Babe,” he levels, “I wasn't asking.”

You both continue to hold your forced grins. They seem to only add to the tension rather than alleviate it. This was perhaps the most polite robbery you had ever heard of. “So… you're just going to take it?”

Keith laughs a deep, throaty rumble, “Well, I was going to give you cab money.”

You frown. The thought of the cab leaves you with an uneasy feeling.

He literally waives you away before turning to leave, “I'm doing you a favor, trust me. Tournaments like this aren't for little girls like you.”

You watch, dumbfounded, as the man begins to casually lumber away. Your mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish out of water and you flop your head from side to side in just the same manner, desperately searching for a helpful vigilante or even just a payphone to call the police.

You realize very quickly that no one is coming to the rescue. Even if you could find a phone, you reason, you have no idea where you are or what the man stole.

You collapse on top of your duffel and watch his retreat in absolute defeat, with no idea where to go or what to do. The tears slowly begin to well up in your eyes. You shade them with your hand and continue to look around for some sort of next move.

You wanted to go home, but home was the bag of garbage you were sitting on.

“Miss?”

…and you still weren't quite sure why.

 “Miss, are you all right?” a polite voice inquires above you.

“No,” you whine without even looking up. Your face falls into your waiting hands, but you quickly smother the wave of hopelessness, and pretend you had only been sweeping your hair away. 

You open your eyes and meet a dark gaze that does not at all fit the youthful face it comes from. The young man seems far older than he is and he acts more important than his short stature makes him out to be. You notice the people in the street, who had been doing their best to ignore Keith, were now watching you and this new stranger with thinly veiled awe. They began to cup whispers to each others’ ears. 

The boy crouches down in front of you, resting his elbows on his knees. Highly styled black hair sways to the side when he cocks his head at you, buried under the weight of the product keeping it feathered upward. He swipes away a long blonde bang that crimps next to high cheekbones, struggling to emerge from baby-cheeks.

“What's wrong?” he asks with more concern or sincerity than you have heard in your entire life. 

“That--” _asshole, thief, American scumbag,_ “That man took my--” _clue, garbage, puzzle piece,_ “my envelope.”

The boy smiles and his sudden departure from mirroring your own emotions frightens you. He rises to his feet, continuing to smile softly, and offers you a hand up. 

“I think we can fix this,” he tells you confidently. 

The trading of cards around you has stopped. The pedestrians with their matching, stuffed bags are now watching the boy reverently as if he is some sort of royalty. 

He's _some kind of important,_ you decide and place your hand in his. 

You half expect him to kiss it, but there is a shyness that doesn't fit with the obvious idolatry that surrounds him. 

“I'm Yugi,” he introduces as he pulls you to your feet. 

“I--” you start but aren't sure how to finish, “I'm a bit lost.”

He blinks at your lack of introduction, and something close to recognition passes through his dark eyes, but it fades into formality. “We'll get you taken care of,” he assures with a pat to your hand and lifts your duffel with his free one. 

He keeps hold of your hand, tugging you forward, and coaxes you onward, “Come on.”

The pedestrians have once again been reduced to whispers. Strategically angled cellphones are nonchalantly pointed in your direction, trying to snap a covert shot of you and this Yugi. While the attention credits his ability to help, it also pushes you to an anxious concern. 

You had the feeling you were biting off more than you could chew here.

Furthermore, you weren't used to being treated like a child lost in a shopping mall.

You square your shoulders and….

4D, take your hand back.

4E, announce a fake name. 

4F, demand to know where he's taking you.


	7. 3C, How Much

Sure, you were a little frazzled, tired, perhaps a bit disoriented on the whole, but that didn't mean that you had completely lost your faculties. Keith’s aggressive and mildly offensive demeanor had turned on a dime for a complete 180.

Now, here he stood beaming down at you, thumbing through his artfully angled wallet with such experience that you can't be sure if there's anything in it at all.

Whatever the invitation was for, he wanted it badly.

“How much are we talking?” you ask nonchalantly, pulling the piece of cardboard through his preoccupied fingers and holding it up for inspection. It's a sad looking scrap at this point. It's been mangled and twisted by Keith's ogreish hands, drug through the dirt, ripped, torn, and crinkled. At one point it had been shiny and pristine, and you feel a bit of guilt about the condition of the expensive looking note.

Regardless, the scrolling letters “formally request your presence” at something called the “The Duelist Kingdom Tournament” and promise a reward “beyond your wildest imaginings” and access to the “histories you require,” which seems a little outrageous in excess of the $200,000 cash prize also advertised.

“Fifty,” Keith suggests.

You glance up at him, with a bit of surprise. You had become so engrossed in the letter and its strange coercing message; you had almost totally forgotten he was there.

“No, a hundred,” he amends quickly.

Your eyes return to the piece of paper, tracing the jagged edge where Keith had ripped away the nameless salutation. Had this letter been meant for you? $200,000 seemed a bit above your pay grade, but you did suddenly find yourself in site need of histories.

Mainly your own, but still…

“One-twenty-five. Final offer,” the blonde announces forcefully.

“American?” a new voice inquires slightly to your left.

You turn in surprise and Keith turns in a rage.

The boy that greets your eyes looks very mild. He wears a button up shirt too formal for his age covered by a pale sweater too “country club” for his nasty expression. You notice hair too white and too long to belong to a teenager. His flashing brown eyes contrast darkly with the rest of his pale demeanor.

You find yourself lost wondering if the look is cosmetic. People's hair didn't actually go white from shock.

Worriedly, you grab a piece of your own hair to check.

Keith's shout breaks your panicked reverie; “Of course I am!”

“No, you dolt,” the white haired boy replies in a soft but sharp voice that oddly mirrors his appearance. “Is your offer for yen or American dollars?”

Keith remains silent.

Rage dawns on you almost faster than the realization. “You were going to give me a _dollar_!” you hissed. “For _this_?”

The white haired boy smirks. You gape. Keith lunges.

He swipes forward with an open palm toward the sad piece of paper still stretched open between your hands. You know what is about to happen, but your brain is shuttering the images to you in slow motion; there is no way you can ever move fast enough to stop him.

Luckily, you don't have to.

The white haired boy steps towards you, throwing a rough shoulder into your side and knocking you and the invitation safely away. With the space clear, he swiftly ducks down, using Keith's own momentum to send him over his shoulder to the pavement below.

The sound of the impact is crunching, sick, and heavy. 

Keith does not move.

The boy turns to you with an unsettling grin and you cannot help but take a step backwards. “It's… uh, not for sale.”

The grin doesn't falter. “I don't want to buy anything from you.”

You both stand your ground, toe to toe, appraising each other silently. His expression seems predatory--like a lion, slow and lazy and confident. You feel more like the gazelle, just looking for a place to run.

Keith groans quietly from his new seat on the ground, breaking the illusion of the foodchain between you and gaining both of your attention.

4G, “Who are you?”

4H, “Is he okay?”

4I, “We should go.”


	8. 3D, A Man

He is a hulking and ominous figure, who is lucky you do not possess the good sense to run. 

His expression is hidden in shadow as he bends towards you, blocking out the rising sun. Nearly half of his face has been marred in deep, pinprick gouges and, although they are stamped in dark ink, the scarring of the flesh makes the design look very distinctly unlike a tattoo. His robe inflates and ripples behind him in the wind, making him look even bigger than his already menacing height manages. 

When you do not move to accept the ticket, he takes another step forward to stretch his arm closer. He speaks firmly, but softly and enunciates each sound carefully, as if you are having difficulty translating his language, “I. Saw. You. Drop. This.” 

The words are punctuated with another small shake of the ticket. He waves it in your face like a bone to a dog--like he expects you to fetch if he throws it. 

His distance is still respectable, but uncomfortable to you. Your hand snaps out and snaps back to the safety of your chest with the speed of a striking cobra. 

The man blinks for a moment, unsure of your strange actions. The impoliteness of the gesture has confused him long enough to delay his returning to whatever business he had in the now bustling marketplace. He looks to the side, checking for something, and the returns his oddly feline gaze to you. 

Your eyes had not left him once. You sat with your back pressed firmly to the duffel and the ticket pressed over your heart. You hadn’t stopped to look at it. You weren’t sure he had even handed you a ticket. Your ears pricked up like a rabbit and your heart sped up like a frightened doe. 

You were so consumed in observing the man, that you did not hear when a second set of footsteps approached, breaking into the bubble of isolation the bustling market-goers had left around the two of you. 

“What’s this, Odion?” their owner wants to know. 

Odion stares at you appraisingly for a moment, considering your dress, your expression, and your duffel with a confused frown. “Nothing important, Master Marik,” is what he finally decides. 

The man steps away and you open your mouth to holler something after him, but the blonde boy that has been trailing him steps in between you. His get-up is infinitely more modern than the ogre accompanying him, but he has an unusual amount of gold draped about his person. 

“Are you sure?” Master Marik asks, eyeing your duffel suspiciously. “She has no rare cards?” 

Odion stops and turns to face his younger companion. His dark cape flares out wildly with the speed of his about-face. 

You wince, but you are surprised to find the large man one one knee, head bent downward before yourself and the blonde boy. 

“She does not appear to be a duelist, Master Marik,” he explains. 

The blonde lets loose an exasperated huff and all but throws his hands in the air in outrage. He rolls his eyes towards you and are left with the feeling that it is impossible for _Master_ Marik to find good help these days. 

“Well, did you _look?_ ” he wants to know, “Did you _ask?_ ”

Odion does not move. He stays still as a statue. The only movement on his person is that made by the wind. It tugs at his cape and pulls at his hood until a long, black sidelock is revealed. Your heart sinks at the familiarity of it, mind immediately racing to the cab. 

Marik is tapping his foot impatiently. “Do I have to do _everything_ myself?” 

Without further provocation, Odion stands and walks towards you. He moves to edge around you towards the back of the bag you are still resting against, but stops when you throw a protective arm over it.

You weren’t entirely sure what was in the bag, but you weren’t about to just let some weirdo with a teenaged boss walk off with it. 

He doesn’t ask or command, but the word comes out in the same even monotone as everything else he says: “Move.” 

You unfold your legs and rise to your feet to square your shoulders with this man. You look him dead in the eye and say...

4J, “No.”

4K, “I’ll scream.” 

4L, “I’d like to speak with your manager.”


	9. 3E, A Boy

Your eyes raise to meet the gaze of a wide-eyed blonde boy. He’s dressed in a long, plain bit of brown fabric and he looks like he’s been rolling around in the dust all day, but he’s smiling unabashedly as if he absolutely cannot contain himself. He bounces excitedly on the balls of his feet, bobbing a bit as he crouches next to you. 

“Yeah,” you mutter, wiping the back of your hand across your forehead, “I’m fine.” 

“You look different,” the boy chirps at you, speaking at the speed of light. “Your eyes are weird and you have so many clothes.” He points to accentuate the barrier as if the volume of his voice wasn’t enough to draw everyone’s attention anyway. “Are you visiting too? Did you travel from far? Do you live above ground? Have you ridden one of these?” 

The boy’s speech halts and he becomes totally consumed with unfolding a carefully bent glossy ad for a bright red motorcycle. The task requires both hands and your ticket flutters softly towards ground. The boy shoves the scrap of magazine so close to your face you cannot see where it lands. 

You put a hand up to brace yourself, but find yourself pushing the photo aside to clarify, “Did you just ask me if I live _above ground_?” 

The boy doesn’t hear you, or ignores you if he does. He has paused only long enough to consider the photo himself. Whatever pops up in his childish brain pulls his mouth down into a small frown. “I’ve never been to town before, but they don’t have any of them here. Do you think they’re very rare?” 

His eyes are overwhelmingly disappointed when they look up at you and the shift of direction catches you off guard. 

“Uhh, no… Kid,” you comfort awkwardly, “they have them just about everywhere. _How_ long have you been in town?” 

“Sister only brought me for a few hours. Then we have to go back home before Father wakes up,” he explains.

You nod knowingly, as if this statement is totally normal and inquire gently, “Why didn’t Father come with you?” 

The boy looks at you aghast. There is unrestrained, unnatural fear written plainly across his face. His small mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. He takes a few shaky breaths and decides, “I should go,” very abruptly. 

You reach out a hand to stop the boy, but he is already on his feet and ready to run. Your extended hand closes on dust as the child sprints in the opposite direction, weaving through the now bustling marketplace with frantic speed. 

With every warning bell you possess ringing wildly in your head, you take off at a dead run to chase the boy, leaving your bag and everything in it behind you. 

You follow him a good while, knocking over only three fruit carts on the way, and catch him just as he slides out on the last corner, his little feet moving too fast for the rest of his body. The boy tumbles in a dusty barrel roll coming to rest on his side. 

Tears begin to form in dark eyes and a shaky little hand comes out of the robe holding a piece of fruit. 

It isn’t him. 

You huff and stomp over. The new little boy flinches as you reach down and pluck him up to his feet, giving him an encouraging push in the opposite direction. You must’ve gotten turned around when you hit one of the fruit carts. 

“Mighty generous of you,” a voice calls in an oddly pitched lilt. You spin to find the source and are met with the sight of the oldest young man you’ve ever seen. 

His long grey hair hangs loosely under a ridiculous safari-themed hat, framing a face too young to match the color. He wears a similar khaki uniform--pressed, pristine and ordered freshly from whatever prissy tourist shop he had passed through. His skin is unmarred and his hands unworked, but you do note a small discoloration on his ring finger, as if the a wedding ring had once protected the flesh from the sun. His tone is teasing and leaves you feeling patronized. 

All in all, you’re confident you could best him in a fist fight, but his lawyer would probably put you through the ringer after. 

You…

4M, ignore him and go back for your bag. 

4N, tell him it’s none of his business. 

4O, ask him where you are.


	10. 3F, A Woman

The ticket dangles between long, pale fingers. Apprehensive blue eyes stare questioningly at you from behind thick ropes of silvery hair. The strands cascades over her delicate shoulders like a waterfall. Her dress is rough and homespun and her feet are shoeless and dirty. 

The woman looks like a pre-genie Aladdin, you think to yourself, and stand to accept the slip of paper.

She blinks as if she is desperately trying not to flinch. It take a moment for you to realize that she is afraid of you, but her hands do not shake and her feet stand firm. 

“I--I think you dropped this,” she says, bowing her head low as she offers the ticket to you again. 

It’s an unusual gesture and you give pause to consider it. 

Unfortunately, your pause is exactly long enough for everyone else to consider the two of you. 

You don’t realize the danger until you reach to take the ticket from the strange woman. The instant your fingers graze the paper a large hand crashes between the two of yours. The hand rips upward, raising both yours and the girl’s arms high into the air as if you had just won a wrestling title match. Both of your eyes raise upwards to the menacing face of the man before dropping to meet each other’s with panic. 

The man does not pay attention to your panic. Instead, he pulls the ticket closer to his face to inspect the photocopied watermark of the ticket. He wrinkles his nose at the simplistic, foreign characters and rubs his fingers uncomfortably against the strangely smooth gloss of the paper. 

The girl seems to wake from her daze and quickly pull her hand back, smothering it to her chest under the other. You realize you’re still holding the edge of the ticket as well and reluctantly pull your hands back as well, but yours rest impatiently on your hips. 

The man narrows his icy blue eyes, glaring from the timid girl to you and back again. “Which of you does this belong to?” he demands to know. 

The girl looks like she’s going to die on the spot, or at least pass out. 

You shift your weight and cross your arms defiantly across your chest. You open your mouth to claim ownership, or to make some of your own demands right back, or maybe just to tell him how stupid his excessively tall hat looks, but the man cuts you short before you can begin. 

“Where did you get this?” 

“Well, maybe we’d tell you if you shut your big mouth for ten goddamn seconds,” you snap peevishly. 

Without missing a beat the man pulls his hand forward and backhands you strongly across the face. You are totally unprepared for the blow and fly to the ground with his follow-through. The gravel scrapes roughly against your hands and you taste dirt as you skid across the sandy ground. 

The man barks something in a condescending tone, but your head is still too preoccupied ringing against your skull to make words out of the sounds. Colors bleed together as you try to glare up towards the words, but the blurs refuse to focus into recognizable shapes. You have to shake them back into focus. 

The light blur rapidly dissolves into the woman and the dark blur becomes the man across from her. She’s barking something up at him. It’s a high-pitched bark, with a bit of whine at the end, but it’s still a bark. 

He raises a hand to her and when you scream, “Look out!” she turns towards your voice instead. The confusion melts out of her eyes as she begins to understand your panic. Her eyes follow your pointing finger back around to the man. Her eyes roll upwards towards his face, but never actually see it. 

Her head snaps back towards you as she tumbles to the ground, unconscious. 

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper to yourself, “what sort of medieval shit show did I just walk into?” 

The man calls out a gruff order over his shoulder and two large, bronze men holding spears move towards the girl. They take her by each arm and drag her away limply, her knees dragging a trail into the sand. They disappear behind two new hulking forms, headed straight in your direction. 

The blue-eyed man, seeing that his orders were being carried out, turned with an unnecessarily large flip of his linen cape.

You hop into a crouch reminiscent of a sprinter’s start. You glance to the left: _fruit, stalls, gawkers._ You glance to the right: _soldiers, spears, horses._

You take a deep breath and make a mad dash for: 

4P, the crowd.

4Q, the soldiers.

4R, the man.


	11. 3G, Flips Open

The edge of the card catches on your thumb and flips apart like a greeting card. A small piece of cardboard flutters out of the middle of the fold and lands softly on the pavement. 

You and Rex both bow your heads and stare at it for a moment, trying to discern what it is. The strip is about the width and length of a back of gum, but shiny and metallic. Tiny golden circles that you slowly identify as coins are painted onto the piece of cardboard with a flaming background. 

It’s Rex that first realizes what’s going on, “That looks like a Duel Monsters card.” 

“Right,” you agree in a condescending tone, with no actual idea of what the kid is talking about. You bend to scoop up the scrap of cardboard, trying to discreetly get a better look at it as you move to tuck it back into the business card. 

There is a loud clatter as Rex drops the duffel carelessly to the ground and grabs your wrist irritatingly tightly. “Let me see!” he demands. 

You both scramble for the fallen card, but Rex is faster. He holds you away with one arm as he ducks to the opposite side, trying to inspect the card and still dodge your flailing slaps. Unfortunately, something on the card seems to briefly confuse him and the moment of hesitation is enough for you to land a solid blow across the side of his face. 

He gives a large push and you stumble backwards, tottering back towards the busy road. A blur of yellow focuses into a taxi in slow motion as you frantically windmill your arms around to no avail. 

Rex pulled you out of traffic and apparently he would put you right back in it too. 

At the last possible second, his hand wraps around the front of your shirt and tugs. You collapse forward back towards the sidewalk, knocking both of you to the pavement once again. 

“Oh my God, lady,” someone finally calls out, “are you okay!” 

You try to scramble to your feet but trip over Rex. The boy is askew beneath you with both hands clutched to his head. He’s either assessing the severity of his concussion or unsuccessfully trying to fix his red beanie. 

The galloping of half a dozen sets of sneakers pounds against the pavement, skidding to a halt near your head. You turn your head to look up but find yourself disoriented again as a pair of hands haul you quickly to your feet. You wobble for a moment before spinning to face the source of the stampede. 

A tall, blonde boy is holding you by either shoulder at arms length. Behind him, a gaggle of uniformed teenagers waits expectantly for some sort of prognosis. 

“I’m fine,” you insist and do your best to pull backward and downward out of the boy’s grasp. 

This only puts the colorful midget at his feet in your line of vision. “Are you sure?” it wants to know. “You took a bit of a tumble.” 

“I’m fine,” you reiterate and push back up to your full height. 

The only girl among the group sets her chin and suggests, “You should at least--” 

But Rex’s scream drowns out her words; “She’s _fine!_ ”

The girl’s muffled words end with a perfect silent O as her mouth drops open in surprise. The blonde looks at Rex as if he has just now noticed there’s a fly in his drink. The midget only frowns. 

“I’m taking care of it, okay!” he shouts at them--mainly up at the blonde--and he shoulders the bag, turning to walk away with it. 

When you look back the group is eyeing _you_ expectantly. 

“I… uh.” You smile nervously. “I--”

4S, “I’ve got to go.”

4T, “I don’t know _who_ that is.”

4U, “I’m lost.”


End file.
